


silent chaos

by ThanksForListening



Series: Game of Thrones One Shots [5]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shock, also me: "lets give her a mental breakdown", but it gets okayish?, for someone who loves sansa i sure love forcing her to relive her traumas dont i, me: "wow i love how mentally strong sansa is even after all this trauma", no death outside of those who died canonically, post 8x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:23:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThanksForListening/pseuds/ThanksForListening
Summary: "After the dust settled, when the dead no longer hunted the living, those who remained found their way back to one another. "aka a look at the immediate aftermath of the battle of winterfell.





	silent chaos

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa has arguably the deepest connection with Winterfell and once i imagined her having to come out of the crypts and see it in complete shambles and covered with dead Northerners i couldn't help myself. Also I kept staring at the image of Dany holding Jorah and was like welp guess i found the mood for this piece. 
> 
> let me know if i need to include trigger warnings for this btw -- its a lot of vague references to violence but no graphic description so i wasn't sure how to tag it but if i need to add warnings i can!

After the dust settled, when the dead no longer hunted the living, those who remained found their way back to one another. Bodies covered every inch of Winterfell, those from the army of the dead nearly indistinguishable from the fallen army of the living. Though it hadn’t been discussed, everyone seemed to make their way to the courtyard, stepping over bones and ashes and searching the crowd for familiar faces. 

Sansa arrived first, dagger in hand, leading the survivors of the crypt out of their own battlefield and onto another. Tyrion stood on one side of her; Missandei on the other. Having huddled in the depths of the crypt, her dagger their sole form of protection, Sansa embraced the fact that for tonight, at least, they had all fought for the same side. For tonight, there were no Kings or Queens, no Lords or Ladies — there was only the living. 

Had she not experienced her own taste of battle, her own taste of hell, the sight of Winterfell might have made her sick. She stared at the remnants of battle, the bodies of her people and those who came to fight for them scattered across the floor. Like she had when she’d gone down to the crypts, Sansa tried to will up some encouragement, words that might ease the people, _her_ people. She knew, however, that just like before, no words could possibly fix the absolute horror that surrounded them. 

Even if the right words did exist, they would have died at the tip of her tongue. She stood among a massacre. She’d spent years fighting for her home, for Winterfell. For the North. This was their success? This was winning? Memories swallowed her whole. Ghosts walked the streets, and she looked around in a panic. Her father stood in front of her, his gentle but stern face exactly as she remembered. His head fell off his body, tumbled down until Joffrey stopped it with his feet. She stared at him, and he gave her that wicked smile that made her blood boil. His eyes went wide, his skin turned blue. He collapsed, choking on his own tongue. Ramsay walked over to him, sneering at the man on the floor. He brought his eyes up to Sansa, and fear paralyzed her, kept a scream trapped in her throat. He smiled, but his jaw fell apart, and she watched his body get torn to pieces. He disintegrated, Littlefinger taking his place. He reached a hand out to her, but she could see the greed in his eyes. He froze, his hand moving to his throat. Blood spilled, and he fell on top of all the others -- a mountain of death. Their blood stained the floors. She looked down at herself and watched as it crept over her hands, covering her entire body. 

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again the blood was gone, the ghosts were gone, but Winterfell still bled. Standing among the wreckage, her home in shambles and her people decimated, she felt her entire body shut down. Thoughts came to her no louder than whispers. Her body seemed to move in slow motion. She could hear someone trying to talk to her — Tyrion, maybe, or one of the surviving Northern lords, but the voice got lost in the silence of her own mind. She didn’t lead, didn’t rally the living to have hope or celebrate their victory. She sat on a step, surrounded by death, and waited. 

Brienne came in, Jaime and Podrick at her side. Even with her mind in disarray, Sansa almost cried at the sight of her, covered in blood and limping slightly but very much alive. Tyrion did cry, walking to Jaime and Podrick and embracing them despite their gruesome appearance. Brienne walked over to her, and had she had more energy, any energy, Sansa would have fallen into her lap and cried herself to sleep then and there; instead, she let Brienne put an arm around her shoulders as she sat, unmoving and unfocused. Waiting.

The night was a blur, a silent chaos that swallowed her whole. People came and went. Some cried in joy; others, in anguish. Most cried in both, either at who they’d lost or what they’d seen. Sansa watched lovers reunite and families fall apart. Missandei burst into tears when an Unsullied soldier walked through the gate. Sam, Jon’s friend, fell to his knees when he saw Gilly and Baby Sam, and they sat together on the ground, ignoring the bodies that surrounded them. Somewhere, a mother wailed. A child looked down and screamed in horror. Someone found Lyanna. Ser Davos held her body as if she was his own, and Sansa tried to understand why but didn’t have the energy to do more than see, watch, bear witness. 

She didn’t notice Jon come in until he was right in front of her. His hands cupped her face, and she could see his mouth moving but couldn’t process what he said. All she could do was stare and nod. When he hugged her, the intensity mirroring their initial reunion at Castle Black, she felt tears start to roll down her cheeks. 

Suddenly he turned his head around, as a man she couldn’t place ran over to him. Sansa closed her eyes, willing her ears to pay attention.

Daenerys. He kept saying her name. Words passed through, some with more clarity than others. She heard Jorah, dragon, inconsolable. Heard Jon swear. Heard her name. 

She forced her eyes back open. Focusing felt nearly impossible, but she managed to bring her eyes up to meet his. She nodded, as much as she could manage. Go, she wanted to tell him, and for a moment she thought she did, before she registered Brienne’s voice next to her. She knew, without hearing her, what Brienne told him — to go, that she would watch over her. She watched as Jon hesitated, then nodded, placing a kiss on Sansa’s forehead before running after the messenger. 

Eventually he came back, Daenerys standing next to him. He was practically carrying her, and Sansa watched as Missandei ran toward them. When Daenerys saw her, her knees nearly gave out, and Jon used both arms to try and keep her upright. By the time Missandei got to them, they were both on the floor, Daenerys on her knees with her head in her lap. Sansa could see the way her entire body shook with sobs. Missandei sat next to her, embracing her as best she could. Jon disappeared, perhaps to find Sam, her mind whispered, but she didn't have the energy to look for him. 

Still Sansa waited. Medics began tending to injuries, separating those who could be healed from those who could only be given a painless death. Still she waited. People she knew and people she didn’t continued to come through the gates, and each time someone ran toward them. The Hound walked through, and even he had someone waiting for his arrival, the red-headed wildling who loved Brienne and whose name evaded her walking over to shake his hand. Still she waited. 

Brienne saw them first. She heard the woman gasp, and Sansa turned her head toward the other entrance. Bran came in first, Arya pushing his chair in front of her. She heard the whisper of someone else’s name, got the feeling that somebody was missing, but her mind refused to let her remember. 

Instead, she watched as Jon ran up to both of them, embracing Arya and then Bran. She could see them speak, but no matter what she told her body she couldn’t get herself to move, to stand, to speak. 

She watched Jon point in her direction, and in an instant Arya stood in front of her. Her entire body was covered in blood and snow, and Sansa could see she was trembling, yet it was Arya who checked Sansa for injuries, scanning her eyes up and down her body furiously.

It was then that Sansa choked out a sob, a hoarse noise she didn’t recognize as her own voice. Arya pulled her into a hug, and Sansa’s arms seemed to wake up as they held her sister. 

“We’re okay,” Arya whispered, and Sansa wondered which one of them it was meant to comfort. 

When they finally let go, Arya reached down and grabbed the dragonglass dagger from the floor. Sansa couldn’t remember dropping it. The longer she stared at it, the more her mind played back for her: the dead tearing through the walls, a dynasty of Starks waging war on their own. She remembered killing one, stabbing it in the back and running as it screamed. When she made her way back to the group, hiding in the dark and praying for a miracle, knowing that all that stood between them and certain death was her and her dagger, that scream had echoed in her brain. She could hear it now — the screeching sound of death meeting death. 

She instinctively pulled her hands up to cover her ears. As Arya inspected it, Sansa focused on her sister instead of the knife. Blood spilled from her forehead, hiding half of her face. Water dripped from her hair as the ice and snow that coated her began to melt. Sansa’s gaze dropped slightly, and she noticed the lines across her neck, four on one side and one on the other. 

Arya looked up at her expectantly, and she must have asked her something but all Sansa could see were the lines. Arya’s face scrunched up in confusion before she followed Sansa’s eyes and reached for her neck. 

She’d seen those lines, she’d — where did she — her mind couldn’t — it was too much, all of it was too much and she wanted to go _home_ but— 

She heard her name. Arya’s hands sat on her shoulders, and Sansa couldn’t understand why she was smiling when they’d lost so—

“I did it,” she whispered, and Sansa must have made a face, because she elaborated. “I killed him. The Night King.” 

Arya kept talking, but even now Sansa could see through it, could see the terror hidden behind the fake smile. It was like staring in a mirror. Arya’s voice faded away, overwhelmed by the voice in her head. Those lines. She’d seen lines like that before, where had she seen—?

Hands around her neck. Ramsay’s hands around her — she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t _breathe—_

“Sansa!”

“He hurt you,” she gasped. 

“No, he didn’t — I killed him, Sansa, I—“

“He hurt you.”

Arya stopped talking. Sansa could feel the tears streaming down her face again but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter, not when she could see tears streaming down Arya’s face too.

“It was so cold,” she said, her voice a haunted whisper, “I can still feel it, his hands around me. It's so cold, Sansa.”

Sansa stood up, letting Brienne steady her as she pulled Arya into her arms. The chaos around them disappeared. All that mattered was her family — they were her home, she realized, more so than Winterfell. She’d keep them together, no matter the cost. Together, the Pack would survive. 

One by one, people started to leave, to try and find a place to sleep for the night. Jon came over, and Sansa used every ounce of strength she had to tell him to open up every room, tell people to take any supplies they needed. Tonight, Winterfell would be everyone’s home. 

She waited until only a few people were left, until only those who still waited remained in the courtyard. She didn’t have the heart nor the energy to tell them they likely waited in vain. “Let me walk you back to your room, My Lady,” Brienne said, and Sansa nodded. Arya followed, an unspoken agreement about where she’d be spending the night. When they got there, Brienne began to leave before Sansa reached out a hand, grabbing the warrior’s arm. 

“Stay,” she asked, “please.”

Brienne nodded. She walked over to the couch in the corner, shedding her armor as she went. Arya and Sansa got into the bed, their parents’ bed. Sansa remembered nights where they used to sleep in here as children — the girls on the inside and her mother and father on the outside. How simple her life had been, how simple everything had been. 

She closed her eyes. She didn’t expect much sleep, but at least she knew she wouldn’t be alone in her restlessness. All across Winterfell people went off with loved ones, and Sansa knew no one slept alone that night.

**Author's Note:**

> the women of GOT are so strong ugh i love them (so naturally i always give them mental breakdowns oops). 
> 
> hit me up on tumblr @thanks--for--listening if u wanna talk got. also comments and kudos are my fav and are super appreciated!!


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